


Hold Tight

by orphan_account



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Q and Bond are oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As tempting as it would be to walk off with Madeleine Swann into the sunset and never look back, Bond isn't ready to retire quite so early. Not with all the reasons he has to stay.</p><p>A fix-it, of sorts, for the somewhat unsatisfying ending of Spectre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Tight

**Author's Note:**

> I'm nearing deadline and went to see Spectre instead of working. So, naturally, fic happened.

Bond stared coldly down at the man lying on the tarmac; the man who had, once upon a time, been the closest thing he had to a brother. Franz smirked up at him, daring him to finish the job. Finger resting beside the trigger, Bond paused.

He looked up, gaze landing on Madeleine further down the bridge, watching him, her face tight. A whole potential future, stood barely twenty feet away; he could drop the gun and walk away now, go with her and never look back, and not a soul would question it. After everything he’d been through in the last couple of years, all the times he’d put himself through hell and clawed his way back for Queen and Country, no one at MI6 would begrudge him his freedom. He thought about it somewhat wistfully; what would he even _do_ , in retirement? His life had been dictated by orders and missions for so long, he wasn’t sure he could cope left to his own devices. And how long would Madeleine stay, before she realised his lax attitude toward death and vicious need to right the wrongs of the world weren’t part of his job at all, but part of his personality she would never be able to cope with. He could leave the life of a spy, but the life would never truly leave him.

As he tried to imagine a future without MI6, his mind filled with images of wild dark hair and smooth porcelain skin, skinny limbs and a smart mouth that gave as good as it got and then some. Bond’s chest ached, and it was nothing to do with his injuries; leaving would mean no more nights tangled in bedsheets with a hard-angled body that should not be as comfortable as it was. No more finger-shaped bruises on pale flesh that he could never regret for the enthusiasm he was greeted with when he made them. No more snark and banter, no more exasperated voice through his earpiece as he pulled off some ridiculous stunt that only worked because he was James Fucking Bond, no more quiet nights on the sofa pretending to be annoyed about the cat asleep on his knees and the fine white hairs that seemed to end up on all of his expensive suits. A life without MI6 was a life without the beautiful, impossible man Bond had spend the last several months trying to convince himself he didn’t have permanent feelings for. He snorted quietly; who was he trying to fool?

Decision already cemented in his mind — _how could he_ possibly _leave now?_ _—_ he glanced up at Madeleine once more, this time with regret. She was a lovely woman, but that wasn’t a life he was cut out for, and he was kidding himself to ever think he would be. He lived by his job, and he’d die by his job; whether it was in six months due to a mission gone tits-up, or thirty years from a heart attack at whichever desk they relegated him to when he was too old for fieldwork.

Looking back down at Franz, he clenched his jaw at the smug look on the man’s bloodied face; he thought he’d won. Bond smirked, repositioning his gun and pulling the trigger without hesitation, sending a bullet right into the man’s forehead. Franz slumped to the ground, and when Bond straightened up, Madeleine was gone. _Probably for the best_ , he thought wryly. People who fell for mission-Bond would never be able to handle off-mission-Bond.

Turning away from the corpse at his feet, he raised an eyebrow at M, who looked quietly surprised at his actions. It was nice that he could keep the man on his toes, after all this time. “It’s over, then?” he presumed, looking at the enormous glass and metal structure across the river. C’s domain. There seemed to be a little more broken glass than the last time he’d checked, and none of the signs of the Nine Eyes system going live. Of course Q had shut it down; no one could beat the Quartermaster at his own game.

“It is now,” M confirmed, clasping Bond’s shoulder and leading him away from the crime scene. The police seemed to take that as permission to take over, rushing forward to secure the mangled helicopter before anything worse could happen.

Following M towards the waiting car, the tension in Bond’s shoulders eased at seeing a pair of familiar faces. “Where’s Tanner?” he asked, raising eyebrows towards Moneypenny and Q. Moneypenny smiled, though she couldn’t quite hide her own surprise at his presence. Had everyone thought he would leave? He supposed, with no idea of his connection to Q, they didn’t see why he had such a reason to stay.

“He had to get back to work,” Moneypenny told him. “Our relationship with MI5 has become somewhat rocky all of a sudden, and there are some staffing issues he needs to resolve.” Bond snorted; rocky was an understatement.

“I suppose that means I’d better get back to the office as well,” M remarked with a sigh. Bond didn’t know what time it was, but he knew it was late. He didn’t envy the man having to deal with the amount of red tape and bullshit that would have emerged from the whole fiasco.

“I’ll drive you, sir,” Moneypenny volunteered, sounding like it was no bother at all for her to head back into work. Only her eyes betrayed her exhaustion — Bond hoped M wouldn’t keep her too late.

“That would be appreciated, Moneypenny. You two, get home, get at full night’s sleep and a solid meal. Bond, I expect you in medical at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning, if not sooner. Lord only knows what you’ve managed to do to yourself after so long off the grid,” M added pointedly. Bond grimaced, thinking of the well-placed needles drilled into his skull only a handful of hours ago. Ordinarily he would’ve ignored such an order, but he was rather fond of his brain, and it was in his best interests to check nothing permanent had been done.

“Very good, sir,” he acquiesced with a nod, eyes sliding to Q. The boffin had been silent through the entire exchange, staring at Bond with an unreadable expression that made the 00-agent anxious. He hadn’t spoken to Q privately since the clinic, and they hadn’t exactly parted on good terms after he’d brought Madeleine to the man’s hotel room. Q’s true thoughts were elusive at the best of times, and right now Bond had no idea where he stood with the dark-haired man.

That decided, M and Moneypenny got back in the car, the woman easily swerving around the many police vehicles and ambulances, leaving Bond and Q alone on the bridge with no other form of transport. There was silence between the two men for a long moment, before Bond ran a hand over his hair. “I don’t know about you,” he began, “but I could go for a drink round about now.” Q startled, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he regained his mask of disinterest.

“Far be it from me to stop you,” he retorted, making Bond smirk. He turned to leave, only realising after several steps that Q was not following. Glancing over his shoulder, he raised a pointed eyebrow at the dark-haired man.

“Come now, Q — you’re not going to make me drink alone, are you?” His voice was honey-smooth, and he didn’t miss the way it made Q’s eyes darken a fraction before the man could hide it.

“I’m sure you could find alternate company if you so desired, Bond,” Q replied loftily. “I’d imagine you could even catch up to Dr Swann if you put your mind to it.”

Bond stared at the man, wondering how a genius of his calibre could possibly be so dense. “Somehow I doubt Dr Swann would welcome my presence, at this point. And it’s not alternate company I’m looking for.” His gaze turned heated, leaving no room for Q to misinterpret. Far from the smirk and quick retort Bond expected, Q merely sighed, striding forward to catch up.

“Then you’d best make it quick. I’m tired, Bond; you’re not the only one who’s had a long week.”

Looking closer, Bond could see the signs of exhaustion on the young Quartermaster’s face; the tightness around his mouth, the bloodshot eyes and slightly messier-than-usual hair. Guilt rose in his gut; Q hadn’t exactly been sat on his arse waiting for Bond to do all the work. Still, he forged on with his plans, easily flagging a taxi and giving the driver an address without Q hearing.

Sat in the back of a taxi, his mission finally over, Bond allowed himself to relax the barest amount. He wouldn’t be truly at ease until he was home safe, but it was good enough for now. His veins hummed with restless post-mission energy, but it was overshadowed by a bone-deep exhaustion that threatened to pull him under if he didn’t pay careful attention. This definitely made the top three for ‘worst missions of his life’.

Turning his head towards Q, he smiled slightly at seeing the man with his head tilted back and his eyes mostly-shut, laptop bag held securely on his lap. He still trusted Bond to keep him safe, then. Bond wished he could reach out and cover one of those long-fingered hands with his own. Not just yet; that was better saved until they were home.

He paused, wondering when he’d started thinking of Q’s flat as ‘home’. He cast his mind back, shaking his head to himself at just how far back he had to go to pinpoint the start of it all. This thing between them, whatever it was, had been going on since Skyfall; there was a reason his own flat was so sparsely decorated. Everything of importance was at Q’s, nestled in between his god-awful cardigans and his obscure 18th century French literature and his bloody mountain of high-tech cat toys. How had that happened? And, more importantly, how had neither of them _noticed?_ Bond had spent so long telling himself he didn’t get attached, didn’t do commitment — especially not with scrawny, know-it-all, frustratingly _gorgeous_ quartermasters — that he’d somehow managed to miss the point where he practically moved in with the man.

Q hadn’t said anything either, leaving Bond to wonder if the man was equally oblivious, or if he was aware and just waiting for Bond to catch on. He didn’t seem the type to wait around like that, but then again, Bond found it hard to believe that he wouldn’t be aware of the agent’s things slowly migrating into his personal space.

Then again, he mused, Q had been as busy as Bond had, since Skyfall. More so even, since he had the whole new lab to set up and all the bureaucracy shit of running a department to work around. He could be excused a few lapses in perception.

The taxi rolled to a halt, and Q jolted awake, looking around. He frowned when he realised where they were, seeing Bond pay the fare and step out of the vehicle. “You know, Bond,” the Quartermaster started, unfolding his long limbs from the back of the cab, shoulders cracking loudly in the evening silence. “It’s considered rather impolite to invite yourself to someone else’s flat when you invite them for a drink.” Bond snorted quietly; that answered that one, then. Q was just as oblivious as Bond himself had been.

“All my good scotch is here already,” he retorted, meeting Q’s gaze without hesitation, expecting the man to read between the lines. _I have nothing for me at my own home_. Q’s eyes softened, and he dropped the subject, leading the way up the stone steps. Getting upstairs and through the security system on autopilot, Q didn’t speak until they were safely inside his apartment, two balls of brown and white fur glaring balefully at them from the sofa.

“I need to feed the monsters,” Q murmured, detouring sluggishly towards the kitchen. Bond let him, crossing the living room to retrieve the scotch and a single tumbler from the cupboard. Q wouldn’t drink, not while he was this tired.

The scotch burned on the way down, loosening the tension in Bond’s shoulders, and with the cats clamouring for food at Q’s heels it left the sofa free for him, sinking into his usual corner with a sigh. God, he was too old for this shit.

Q returned, tired eyes landing on Bond, and he hesitated; something he rarely did. Q may appear to be young and green and unsure, but he was one of the most confident men Bond had ever met; he knew what he wanted, and every inch of his carefully-constructed facade was designed to help him achieve that. But that facade was cracking, and it made Bond frown slightly. “I hope you’re not expecting anything,” Q said, curling his feet beneath him once he’d sat at the opposite end of the sofa. “You’ll be sorely disappointed.”

“There’s always the morning,” Bond retorted wolfishly, earning a familiar eye-roll.

“Why are you here, Bond?” Q sighed, running a hand through his hair.

 _There’s nowhere else I’d rather be_ , Bond thought instantly, surprising himself; how long had he been denying himself, to be so deep so quickly and not have realised. “I told you, I wanted a drink.”

“You could’ve got a drink with Dr Swann. Or any number of available women — or men — in London.” Q’s voice was curt, and Bond looked at him unflinchingly.

“I didn’t want to,” he said simply. Q faltered, clearly not getting the response he had expected. Bond didn’t blame him; their exchanged were all about banter and quick wit and innuendo. They were never so plain with each other, so honest. Bond was tired of it. Q was angry with him, that much was clear, and all Bond wanted to do was go to bed with the genius in his arms, get a decent amount of sleep, and get back to work well-rested. For as long as Q would allow him, if possible.

“Bond,” Q started, trailing off with a shake of his head. Bond set his empty tumbler down on the coffee table, twisting to face Q head-on.

“Whatever it is I’ve done to upset you, I’m sorry,” Bond said. “And I’m sorry for being unable to make my apology a little more specific, but I’ve done rather a lot in the past week, and I’m unsure which of my actions have angered you most. The car was a beautiful piece of tech; if there had been any other option than the river, I assure you, I would’ve taken it.”

“It’s not about the sodding car!” Q burst out, cheeks flushing. “I’ve come to expect that from you, at this point. Yes, it’s annoying, and an enormous waste of government resources and Q-branch budget, but I don’t _care_ about the car.” Bond waited patiently, eyes fixed on Q, hoping for a way to fix whatever he’d broken inside the younger man. “I knew where you were,” Q bit out. “I knew _exactly_ where you were and I couldn’t bloody do anything about it because that absolute _scumbag_ was monitoring my systems. He tapped Moneypenny’s phone, he had ears and eyes all over my network, _my agents_ , and because of him I had to let you go into the enemy’s lair with nothing but a bloody exploding watch and a doctor with a chip on her shoulder three miles deep and an infatuation for you about the same size! No monitors, no communication, I was totally blind on you at a time when anything could have gone wrong!” He took a deep breath, shaking his head. “I got cocky, so much so that it was nearly irreversible. MI6 communications should’ve been too tight for him to access.”

“Q, it’s not your fault,” Bond started, only to be cut off by a glare.

“ _It’s my job_ ,” Q insisted. “It’s my job to be aware of what you’re doing and where you are at every minute of every day, especially when you’re in the field! If something had happened, if you hadn’t been so bloody _indestructible_ as to come out of that alive and well, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything. I wouldn’t even have been able to sit and watch without letting C know where you were. Anything could have happened to you, and I wouldn’t have fucking known until it was too late!”

“That exploding watch saved my life,” Bond informed him. “You did as much as I needed you to, when it counted.”

“It wasn’t as much as _I_ needed,” Q retorted angrily. “I’m used to sitting back and watching you get yourself nearly killed, watching you fuck your way through dozens of women and piss off as many people as humanly possible on your way. I’m _not_ used to you being out there doing exactly that without any way for me to intervene if you cock up.”

His face was flushed, and if Bond wasn’t mistaken there were tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. Christ, he must be exhausted. Not hesitating, Bond shuffled across the sofa until his knee was pressed against Q’s thigh, cupping the man’s narrow jaw with one gun-callused hand. “You can’t always be there, Q. That doesn’t make it your fault if anything happens — I knew what I was getting into when I started nosing around where I didn’t belong.”

“I appreciate the platitudes, James, but you’re a little off the mark. I’m responsible for your safety while you’re in the field.” If they were switching to first names, Q was clearly beginning to give in, and Bond smiled to himself.

“Technically, I wasn’t in the field. I was AWOL, that’s hardly your responsibility.”

“AWOL from M, and from MI6,” Q corrected fiercely. “Not from me. _Never_ from me.” His eyes were bright with determination, and Bond’s heart clenched.

“Never from you,” he agreed, thumb stroking Q’s cheek as he moved closer. Q’s breath hitched, his resolve wavering.

“I don’t understand why you’re here,” the Quartermaster admitted quietly. “Dr Swann—“

“Madeleine didn’t want to be part of this life anymore,” Bond cut in. “And I’m not quite ready to give it up yet.”

“No one would have blamed you, if you’d— if you’d left,” Q murmured, stuttering around the lump in his throat. “Taken the girl and driven away into the sunset. You deserve your happy ending, James.”

“Who says I won’t get it?” Bond retorted, crowding Q back against the arm of the sofa until he was practically on top of the lithe man. Q’s eyes went wide, and Bond smirked. “Look around, Q. _Really_ look,” he breathed, lips barely brushing the pale column of Q’s throat. “My gun is in your safe, my suits are in your wardrobe. There’s coffee in your kitchen cupboards and you don’t even drink the bloody stuff. For fuck’s sake, Q, there’s a photo of me and Alec on your sodding bookshelf.” Q’s gaze darted to the photo in question, realisation dawning, and Bond kissed him hard. God, he’d missed Q’s mouth. Missed the rest of him, too.

“James,” Q breathed, arching into the kiss. “James, please, don’t mess me around,” he begged. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I’m not,” Bond promised, hand sliding under Q’s rumpled shirt, fingers skating up his stomach. “Q, _Alexander_ , I’d never,” he vowed, feeling Q tense at the name that had only left Bond’s lips a handful of times in the past. “Not with this. Not with you.” He was terrible with words, truly — he was a man of action. But he hoped his actions were enough to get the message across, that he was absolutely, embarrassingly besotted with the man beneath him on the sofa. He just wished it hadn’t taken him so long to realise.

“No takebacks,” Q muttered, making Bond chuckle.

“I wouldn’t dare, my dear Quartermaster,” he assured. “Now we’re both on the same page, I daresay you’ll find it hard to get rid of me.” Q wound an arm around Bond’s back, looking up at Bond with lust-blown eyes.

“Good,” he declared firmly. “You really must stop making these poor women fall in love with you, James. It’s very inconvenient for me.” Bond could see it then, the look in Q’s eyes that betrayed how much it pained him to see Bond enchant another woman, wondering each time if she could be the one to tear him away for good.

“It’s hardly my fault I’m so charming,” Bond teased, earning a bite to the ear that was just the right side of painful. “I can’t help the attachment they feel, Q,” he pointed out, undoing the last buttons of Q’s shirt and sliding the tie out from beneath his collar. “But any part of myself I might give them pales in comparison to what I’ve given you.” Wanting to make his point inordinately clear, Bond propped himself up on his elbows, meeting Q’s lust-blown eyes. “I am loyal to MI6, to the crown and to my country. And above all else, I am loyal to my Quartermaster.”

Q wasn’t quite so far gone as to miss the intensity in Bond’s words, and his breath hitched. Fingers sliding into the short hairs at the back of Bond’s head, he brought the man down, slamming their lips together. “You couldn’t have just said ‘I love you’ like a normal person, hmm?” he joked when they parted, and Bond smirked.

“I love you,” he affirmed, feeling a little smug at Q’s wide-eyed response. Clearly the man hadn’t expected him to actually say the words. Well, Bond wasn’t in the habit of denying himself the few pleasures he could get; and having Q was a greater pleasure than any.

“No takebacks,” Q said again, frozen in place. Bond slid a knee between Q’s thighs, more for balance than anything; this wasn’t leading to sex. This was about closeness, about reassuring each other that they’d made it through hell and come out alive.

“You couldn’t have just said ‘I love you too’ like a normal person?” Bond retorted, tone mocking but fond. Q raised an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t know, it is an awfully large commitment— ow!” he yelped as Bond pinched him gently in the side. “Yes, you brute, I love you too, as if you weren’t already aware! Smug bastard,” he added, glaring. Bond smirked, heart hammering against his ribs at hearing the words. That was it, that was his weakness in the open — but Franz was dead, and there was no one else out to ruin his life. He could afford to have a weakness, especially one as well-guarded as the Quartermaster of MI6.

Q leant up to bring him closer, but before they could get too caught up in each other, there was a pointed ‘meow’ from the floor, and a weight landed on Bond’s back, claws digging in through his shirt. Q groaned, falling back against the sofa. “Fucking _cats_ ,” he muttered, making Bond laugh. Sighing to himself, Q patted Bond’s side. “Shower,” he declared. “Then bed. For sleep.” A weary smile tugged at his lips. “Anything else can come after I’ve had a chance to recharge my brain.”

“Works for me,” Bond agreed, dislodging the cat and getting to his feet, pulling Q up with him. The Quartermaster’s shirt was still undone, hanging off his lithe frame and revealing his smooth, surprisingly muscled chest. Hair in disarray and half-undone trousers low on his hips, he looked like Bond’s personal wet dream. “You gorgeous creature,” he murmured, kissing the man’s neck on the way towards the bathroom. Q followed close behind, and when Bond began to strip off as soon as the water had heated up, he did the same. Surprised, Bond definitely wasn’t going to argue, heat pooling in his groin at the sight of a naked Q stepping under the spray.

“Hands to yourself,” Q scolded quietly, looking half asleep as he lathered his hair. Bond smiled, taking over with gentle hands, ignoring the ache in his muscles.

“That’s far too tall an order, with you looking so tempting,” he argued, coaxing Q into letting him wash the other man, avoiding his half-hard cock. Neither of them had enough energy for what Bond wanted to do to the man he had claimed as his own.

They didn’t take too long in the shower, adrenaline rush firmly fading and leaving them both sluggish and sore. Still damp, they practically fell into bed, Bond sighing silently at the familiar comfortable mattress and soft sheets. He didn’t let Q go far, pulling him in tight to his body and tangling their legs together. “James,” Q murmured, shifting into a more comfortable position. “Ease up. You’ve got me, okay? You don’t need to hold on so tight.” He wasn’t just referring to Bond’s physical grip at that point, though the spy did loosen his hold.

“No, but now I’m allowed,” Bond returned, tugging the duvet up over them. Q turned in his arms, head resting on Bond’s muscular shoulder.

“You’ve always been allowed, you daft sod. You just didn’t realise.” His smile was fond, his fingers tracing random patterns on Bond’s ribs. It was ridiculous, really, how two full-grown, intelligent men had been so determined not to show signs of commitment to the other that they’d fallen so hard and fast they’d barely had time to notice. Only when the threat arose of having it torn away did things slot into place. “If we’re going to do this, properly this time, we need ground rules.”

“Anything,” Bond promised, already dozing off. Q nudged him in the stomach, keeping him awake.

“James, I’m serious. I won’t cope with you doing what you do without some sort of contingency plan in place.” It was hard for Bond to concentrate with Q’s fingers running up and down his chest, but he tried his best.

“I’ll change my address when I go in tomorrow,” Bond assured with his eyes closed, presuming that was the direction Q was going in. “You’re already my next of kin.” And really, that should’ve been a huge giveaway. “You should be able to keep the changes out of the MI6 gossip circle, but the three musketeers should catch on quick enough.” M, Moneypenny and Tanner were far too nosy to miss a records change as significant as that. Changing his address to Q’s was tantamount to writing the man in as his spouse; one step at a time, Bond thought.

Q was still in his arms, and Bond cracked one eye open to see him with an astonished look on his face. “…I was just going to suggest letting me re-inject the SmartBlood system. But that— that works, too.” Bond bit back a smile, wondering how long it would take to convince Q he wasn’t going to bugger off at the next pretty face. His fears had been holding him back before, his paranoia that something would swoop in and take away any scrap of happiness he might have. That something was Franz Oberhauser, and he was dead now.

“Anything else, or can I sleep now?”

Q sighed, cuddling closer into Bond’s embrace. “No, no. That’ll do for now.” Bond tilted his head to kiss him, marvelling at the abrupt turn his evening had taken. That morning, he’d been sure he would end the day either dead or having lost someone important.

Things were still changing, after Skyfall; MI6 had already been through so much upheaval, and with C’s betrayal it was only going to get worse. But perhaps, Bond mused as he buried his nose in Q’s still-drying curls, not all those changes were bad ones.


End file.
